


Concerning Hobbits

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Hobbits, Magical Hobbits, Post-Series, Sailing To Valinor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:14:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27903544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: As in all matters, the hobbits handled their Creation quietly, and this is because they were not created at all.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 208





	Concerning Hobbits

_I. Concerning Hobbits_

* * *

There are no histories of the first hobbits.

Perhaps this is because the hobbits were not created like other races – adults blooming out of the Void in a sudden gift of life, parceled out in a single bright instant by watchful Vala.

As in all matters, the hobbits handled their Creation quietly, and this is because they were not created at all.

Sometimes – often, in those Eldar days before the creation of Men – elves sat and sang together of the things they wanted. Because even in those first days, of course, the elves Wanted. They wanted sweet fruits better than those found on the unmarred bushes; they wanted friends and good company; they wanted soft places to rest, and the lovely stars to shine still brighter, and sometimes a mischievous elf wanted to sneak up on his friends so he could laugh at their startlement. And somewhere between this want for company and the dreams half-spun into a newborn world, these elves did not notice their shadows fading, merging, and wandering off behind them.

When the men came they wanted things, too. And they wanted many of the things elves had, and many things the elves did not want so much. Then the dwarves came singing of places under the earth, and their crafts, and all the comfortable, useful things they could make.

As years passed each race Wanted. Their little shadows grew and grew, and occasionally, in one of those wonderful mysteries of the universe, stopped being shadows at all.

This might have been noticed, were the elves not so delighted in their arts, and the men in gazing jealously at the elves, and the dwarrows in burying themselves in the earth, keeping away everybody. So suddenly there were hobbits – who also liked burrows and shiny objects, and green things, and were shaped somewhat like an elf and somewhat like a Man and somewhat like a dwarf, though always a smaller imitation of all of them. From the start there were three types of hobbits – Fallohides, Stoors, and Harfoots - but there were also more, except these hobbits came after the creation of orcs and dragons. They were such miserable, lonely things that they quickly died in obscurity.

Hobbits become much like the people they know, in truth; but that means they have personality, and were individuals, as is true of all races. And over time as the Darkness grew hobbits found they were not welcome in the dangerous places between the Misty Mountains and Mirkwood where most of them lived. (This is because no Free creatures of Middle-Earth were safe in those parts). So they gathered all together and set out for new lands. At some point after the creation of the sun and moon, after the world was bent and the Valar grew quiet to Middle Earth, shadows became solid and still and stopped wandering away – even when Men and Elves and Dwarves weren't looking.

But the hobbits survived, because that it what they knew to do. Over the years they stayed away from men and elves and dwarves, becoming more and more like Hobbits instead.

But there were still Fallohides and Stoors and Harfoots, still families of fair slender hobbits who lived apart from those bearded hobbits who loved the deepest burrows. And while most Hobbits grew more hobbit-ish, a few, occasionally, stepped back out into the world.

Including one Frodo Baggins, of Fallohide blood; and his choices had very interesting results for everyone.

* * *

_II. Frodo_

* * *

In years after the War of the Ring Frodo lives very quietly; or he tries to, at any rate. For the first year Sam fusses over him constantly, and even Merry and Pippin – both cheerfully prone to boasting around the town, or by contrast fleeing the rebukes of stern family members – find time to take over his guest-rooms and hassle Frodo into eating, or into taking a walking-holiday that inevitably ends with everyone running through Farmer Maggot's fields like breathless children.

But compared to his friends Frodo finds it harder to forget the past. Sam understands this best, perhaps; he also carried the Ring a short while. So while Merry and Pippin wander through the woods – for they are both oddly fond of the Old Forest, these days – Sam sits with Frodo on his stoop, hand-in-hand, and tells stories to cheer his spirit. Sam tends the garden and ensures he eats the freshest salads, and the plump berries, and only the softest breads.

But even Sam turns aside sometimes. He grows very fond of Rosie Cotton, and Frodo would not begrudge him that (however he might like to). He knows Sam would stay with him in an instant, and forget any other love, if Frodo only asked; but Frodo has a certain and undeniable sense that he is no longer meant for love or friendships or hard, tangible things, like the company of other hobbits. Sometimes he wanders the streets at nights, barefoot and cowled in his elvish cloak, and then fauntlings race past him without even seeming to notice his odd figure. Sometimes he finds himself atop hills or trees, looking up at the stars, fingering Earendil's Light around his neck while weeping softly for reasons he cannot name.

The years that slip by seem to pass faster and faster. Frodo lets himself be harassed into becoming Mayor, which is really a minor title; and eventually, as with all things, he turns over the position to Sam, because he cannot really pay attention to the Shire these days. This should not be misunderstood, because he loves the Shire, and he always will. But he loves it as one loves a work of art, and also as one loves a child, and a concept, and a religion. He admires it and adores it from every angle, but at the end of the day it is something apart from him, and not wholly understandable. And it can never quite be his, now. Frodo once belonged in the Shire, but now he belongs...

After Sam's first child is born Frodo starts writing his story. It is a sequel, so he likes to think, to Bilbo's Red Book; but that is not why he writes it. Sometimes he hopes that the writing will provide some answers for him, but it never does. Writing occupies all his time, and sometimes Frodo only remembers to sleep because Sam comes knocking and he realizes he's been sitting in the dark all night, hand cramped under the starlight that streaks through the windows.

Under such conditions it should be no wonder that Frodo starts to feel very thin and stretched. What he never tells Sam is that this feeling always makes him think of the horrible Ring-Wraiths, wisps of old kings and queens of men. Hollow shadows of real people, distorted.

The Ring-Wraiths were immortal; and Frodo does not age.

This, of course, is not readily apparent. It takes a few years before people start remembering Frodo's age with some surprise; and then they just laugh, and call him 'well-preserved,' maybe comparing him to Bilbo. But few people remember Bilbo, now, and after such comments Sam always invites him to dinner.

There is a great restlessness in Frodo, but simultaneously a deep fatigue. Every year on the anniversary of that battle at Weathertop he finds himself shuddering and ill. It occurs to him a few years after the fact that he really did become very close to being a ringwraith, and he wonders if it was so easy for each of those Kings and Queens to fall, though he always thought their corruption took years.

Many seasons after their return Sam tries to get him interested in land-management, “seeing as how Master Pippin has taken on the forests now,” he says, “and he and Master Merry could use some help managing those awful strange trees they're tending.”

(Sam now relents to call Frodo by name, sometimes; but for the rest of his life their friends will be _Master Merry_ and _Master Pippin,_ to say nothing of poor King Elessar, who always spends half his letters pleading with Sam to stop addressing notes to 'Your Royal Majesty' _)_

Frodo has to decline. He hears rumors that Pippin's forest is haunted still, but somehow he's never worried for his friends. The deep woods hold no danger for him or Merry now.

It is somehow not a surprise when the elves of Rivendell ask Frodo to join them on the journey West. It is, of course, entirely unprecedented in all the annals of history; but so are many parts of Frodo's life. And of all places, he has felt most restful these past years in Rivendell, where the waterfalls and soft flowers seem to live as timelessly as the diminishing elves that haunt the halls.

So he goes, gentling Sam's sobs as best he can beforehand. Sam has many children, now, and this hurts Frodo as much as it comforts him. Sam carried the Ring for only a little while, and more than anything he hopes that Sam never feels the soul-deep ache that pains Frodo with every breath he takes.

Bilbo is still alive, though only barely; when Frodo meets him in Rivendell his hair is a shock of white, and his soft weathered hands tremble and shake when Frodo holds him. The elves have to ride slowly for his sake, and this they do gladly. It warms Frodo to see how loved his uncle has become – but he finds himself strangely impatient, too.

He wants to view the sea. He needs to see it, suddenly, though he has never before sought the ocean in all his life.

The white coasts are more beautiful than anything he might have imagined. He marvels with the elves at the soft sands, dancing up and down the coasts as a few designated elves seek out their ships. Bilbo can't dance, but he sits quietly in the shallows, pipe in hand, smiling as he stares out at the light reflecting back from the waves.

It is not all joy, of course; but when he says his farewells the next day, Frodo looks at Sam – who insisted on coming all this way to see him off – and he's suddenly certain that they'll meet again.

When it is time to go and all good-byes are said Frodo stands beside Bilbo on the deck of their little elven ship. He's privileged to sail with Elrond's household, and finds himself distracted from the path before them when a particularly fair elf steps up to Frodo's side.

Catching this glance, Lord Glorfindel looks down at him and smiles. Bilbo once told Frodo that Glorfindel has _the light of Valinor_ in his face, because he'd already been there before; Frodo can believe it. Even here, surrounded in the ethereal beauty of Elrond's host, Glorfindel seems imbued with a shining inner light.

It is a light so, so palely reflected on Frodo himself; and though he does not notice it, none of the other elves have it at all.

Frodo wonders what it would be like to meet a Vala. He imagines that they must be very great people – but, perhaps, not so great as to be removed. Gandalf is a Maia, too, and supposedly old enough to have seen the start of the world. Even Elrond has been alive for thousands of years. But they are also just people, and Frodo is friends with them, so maybe one day he can say hello to the Valar too.

As the sea shifts the waters split into perplexingly impossible arcs. The Straight Path starts to open before them. Frodo Baggins reaches down to fish out his beloved vial of starlight, gifted to him by Galadriel so many years ago. Its silvery radiance casts his fair skin in glowing relief, highlighting the unusually long curve of his ears.

Frodo doesn't realize it, but in that moment Glorfindel looks at him and suddenly cannot doubt the wisdom of sending him West.

Frodo seems like he belongs here.

* * *

Somewhere in Hobbiton, years later, Elanor Gamgee listens to her father's stories about the elves and their ancient wars and the unseen roads West. “But where do hobbits come from?” She wonders. “We know how the elves were made, and dwarves, and men – but what about hobbits?”

“Why, we ain't important enough for legends or great stories,” says Samwise Gamgee, who is even now depicted in a great marble statue on the highest level of Minas Tirith. “But I reckon even in Valinor, there's some uimportant little Maia or elf who keeps an eye on us. There's always folk around who care for the smaller people, and I reckon we don't need any great blessings or songs, as long we have a friend or two on the other side.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is very rambling and I wrote it in like... an hour... do not @me about any inaccuracies lol

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Concerning Hobbits, by WerewolvesAreReal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28004619) by [Thimblerig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig)




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